"If--" began the buccaroo, and halted.

"Fact is, you're a set of cowards," said Drake, briefly. "I notice you've
forgot to remove that whiskey jug." The demijohn still stood by the great
fireplace. Drake entered and laid hold of it, the crowd standing back and
watching. He took it out, with what remained in its capacious bottom, set
it on a stump, stepped back, levelled his gun, and shattered the vessel
to pieces. The whiskey drained down, wetting the stump, creeping to the
ground.

Much potency lies in the object-lesson, and a grin was on the faces of
all present, save Uncle Pasco's. It had been his demijohn, and when the
shot struck it he blinked nervously.

"You ornery old mink!" said Drake, looking at him. "You keep to the
jewelry business hereafter."

The buccaroos grinned again. It was reassuring to witness wrath turn upon
another.

"You want to hold your jobs?" Drake resumed to them. "You can trust
yourselves?"

"Yes, sir," said Half-past Full.

"But I don't trust you," stated Drake, genially; and the buccaroos'
hopeful eyes dropped. "I'm going to divide you," pursued the new
superintendent. "Split you far and wide among the company's ranches. Stir
you in with decenter blood. You'll go to White-horse ranch, just across
the line of Nevada," he said to Half-past Full. "I'm tired of the